


Homecoming

by whichclothes



Series: Madhouse [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to <em><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all">Madhouse</a></em>, but it's not necessary to read that fic to enjoy this one. Giles deals with having become a vampire with a soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/giles), [homecoming](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/homecoming), [madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse)  
  
  
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**Title: **Homecoming  
**Characters:** Giles, Buffy   
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** This is a sequel to _[Madhouse](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all)_, but it's not necessary to read that fic to enjoy this one. Giles deals with having become a vampire with a soul.  
**A/N:**  For [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/) . Many thanks to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and also to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for the fantastic banner at the top, and to [](http://angelus2hot.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelus2hot**](http://angelus2hot.livejournal.com/)  for the lovely art at the end!

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**Homecoming (1/1)**   
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Homecoming  
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He’d thought that he’d known everything about vampires. After all, he’d spent many years studying them, killing them, even on occasion, fighting alongside them. None of that, however, had prepared him for _being_ one.

He’d been aware that a vampire’s senses were more acute than a human’s, that they could see in almost absolute darkness and hear the tiniest noises and, like a bloodhound, catch even the faintest of scents. But knowing those things in an intellectual way was a good sight different than experiencing them. Now, it was as if he’d lived his entire life in a sensory deprivation chamber. Sometimes he’d find himself so overcome he had to stop and close his eyes and focus on something very small—the sound of an insect crawling across a dry leaf, perhaps—until he had his bearings again.

He’d also been aware that the demon within a vampire would hunger for violence and blood, and his experiences with Angel and Spike had taught him that a soul would only temper the hunger, not eliminate it. But he hadn’t understood the way he’d instantly perceive humans as prey, the way a desperate yearning would claw at him as if there were a beast trying to escape from inside.

He hadn’t known how good fresh blood would taste, and how stale and flat the packaged stuff and the animal blood from the butcher’s would be. He hadn’t known how glorious it would feel when he allowed his fangs to drop, and when he permitted himself to use his newfound speed and strength.

He hadn’t realized he’d miss the sun so much.

And until recently, he had never truly given thought to the difficulties vampires might have in traveling. Yes, he knew from his jaunts with Spike and the others that traveling cross-country in a car was possible, so long as the driving was confined to nighttime. But what about going abroad? Unlike Spike, he did have proper documentation. But it was impossible for him to avoid sunlight on a flight to England. A few overnight flights almost worked, but they tended to arrive very close to dawn, and if there was any delay at all, he’d be in rather a predicament, wouldn’t he?

Angel and Spike assured him that the only sensible way for him to return to London was by ship. So he bid his farewells to Xander and Spike and Angel, who, it appeared, were now ensconced in domestic tranquility. Angel was healing rapidly, which was fortunate because he had been a terrible patient. Giles caught a redeye from San Francisco to New York. He was relieved that the airport screeners didn’t appear to notice his…condition. For nearly a week he stayed in a Midtown hotel, pleased with the fact that at least in that city he could find plenty of things to do at night. He drank blood he purchased from a grocers.

And then, on a Tuesday evening, he boarded the Queen Mary 2. Normally, passengers were meant to embark during the day. But he made a few phone calls and claimed to be suffering from severe sensitivity to sunlight—which wasn’t an untruth, actually. The Cunard Line officials permitted him to board very early, just before the sun rose, and he made his way immediately to his interior cabin.

He spent most of the journey in that cabin. Occasionally he went out and walked the decks at night, but he found that the close proximity of so many humans stirred his demon in unpleasant ways, especially since he’d been able to pack only a minimal amount of blood. He’d brought books, however, and he watched some television, and he spent hours considering what his actions would be when he arrived in England.

Still, when the ship berthed at Southampton, he hadn’t truly decided what to do. He waited until sunset to disembark, of course, and then spent some time walking along the waterfront, inhaling the mingled scents of sea and land. There were a few people about and when he caught himself wondering what it would be like to hunt them—not actually _kill_ them, of course, but merely give them a bit of a scare—he abruptly hired a car and set out for London.

He parked the car not far from Watchers’ Headquarters, and then spent nearly an hour pacing aimlessly up and down the streets, dragging his suitcase with him, growing more and more anxious and more and more disgusted with himself. Finally, he imagined Spike planting himself in front of him and accusing him of being a broodier vampire than Angel ever was, and that was enough to spur Giles to action. He spun on his heel and marched up the pavement, up the five worn front steps of the familiar building. He stared resolutely into the lens of the security camera and opened the door.

He hadn’t been entirely certain that he’d be physically able to enter the building without an invitation. On the one hand, the lobby was a relatively public place with people moving through it all the time. Furthermore, he had rooms of his own here, a small suite consisting of a bedroom and loo and a sitting room, which he used as a study. On the other hand, he hadn’t been residing here for some time, and not at all since before he’d died, and several dozen Slayers and Watchers used this building as their primary residence. The Council might be very interested to learn the result of this particular test of the rules of vampirism. Assuming someone didn’t just stake him straightaway.

But he was able to enter without any problems, and nobody came rushing at him with a stake in her hand. In fact, there was nobody about at all, except for one skinny dark-haired girl who was sitting at the desk near the entrance, typing away on a laptop. She barely glanced up at him. “Hey, Mr. Giles. Welcome back.”

“Good evening, erm, Hattie.”

“It’s Hayleigh,” she said and he winced a bit, remembering the atrocious way she spelled her name.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and went past her. He didn’t see anyone else at all as he walked up the stairs, but his enhanced senses could make out the sound of laughter deep inside the building, and he recalled that it was the Slayers’ traditional Sunday Movie Night. Just as well, perhaps.

His rooms were exactly as he’d left them, books and papers in neat stacks in the one room, his bed made up in the other. Everything was quite dusty, however. But the bottle of Lagavulin was hidden in the cupboard where he’d left it, and it was still three-quarters full. He left his suitcase unopened and poured himself a healthy glassful before sinking into the deep leather armchair he kept in the sitting room.

He had taken only two sips when his door shook with the force of a knock, and then flew open. He scrambled to his feet—considerably more gracefully than he could have managed a few weeks earlier—and a girl came flying in.

“Giles! You’re home! Why are you hiding in here?”

He moved back a few steps until he was up against a bookcase. “Buffy, it’s wonderful to see you again.”

She was wearing a pair of flannel pajama trousers and a gray sweatshirt with a Northwestern University logo, and her hair was up in a messy ponytail. She smelled of pizza and curry.

She stopped moving toward him and cocked her head. “Are you okay, Giles? There’s something….”

He cleared his throat nervously and glanced toward the room’s sole window. He wasn’t certain he could make it there before her, not even with his new speed, and he also wasn’t especially keen on seeing what it felt like to fall four storeys. “I’ve, erm…had some adventures of late.”

“Adventures? What the heck were you and Will doing with Xan anyway? And Angel? Didn’t Will say Angel was involved?”

He sighed. His new status wasn’t the only shock she had in store for her; he rather wished Willow were here, but he'd heard she was in Duisburg with some members of her coven, sorting out a haunted steel factory. “It’s a bit of a long story, actually,” he said.

Buffy’s frown deepened. Then her eyes went wide and he heard her heartbeat speed up, and she crouched into a fighting stance. “You’re…you’re….”

“A vampire,” he agreed, and he downed the remainder of the glass of whiskey and set it down on a shelf, alongside his worn set of Dryden’s _Identification Guide to Demons of the British Isles_.

She’d gone very pale and she hadn’t moved out of her defensive posture. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice that managed to sound both heartbroken and angry.

It was a good question, and he gave only the simplest answer. “I live here.”

She snarled slightly. “You don’t _live_ anywhere. You’re dead.”

“Yes. I expect that’s true. But this is my residence, and…I’ve a soul, you know. Willow put it in me, as soon as I…rose. I’ve never killed anyone.” Well, not as a vampire, in any case. He remembered how glorious it had felt, those brief moments when the demon had reigned in him unfettered, and how he’d fought against the return of his soul, which had felt prickly, like eating barbed wire.

She clearly wasn’t certain whether to believe him.

“You can ring her, if you like,” he said. “My mobile’s just next to you, on the desk. Or invite Rodrigues or Singh in, if you like. They both know the spell to ascertain the existence of a soul. I taught it to them myself.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her posture relaxed a bit. “Who did it?” she asked in a dangerous voice.

Well, that was a complicated question to answer, was it not? “The…the evil being we were fighting in California nearly killed me. I would certainly have died even had I not been turned. I was turned with good will, and with Willow’s permission.”

“Angel,” she whispered. “Angel did it.”

“Erm…no.” Good Lord. She didn’t know he was human now, either. And she was certainly unaware of the relationship he had with Xander, and with Spike, the latter of whom she assumed had been incinerated in Sunnydale.

“Then who?”

Perhaps he should have stayed in California. Or gone to Winchcombe, where he owned a nice little house he’d inherited from his Aunt Penelope. Or perhaps… anywhere but here. He sighed again and eyed the bottle on his desk. “Buffy? Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of whiskey?”

 

***

 

As the evening wore on, there were several points during which he was convinced Buffy was going to stake him. At other times, he could have sworn she was going to get on the nearest airplane and do something dire to Xander, Spike, Angel, or, more likely, all three of them. She wasn’t particularly pleased with Willow either, for keeping so many secrets.

When his tale was finally told, though, she simply nodded her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed but free of tears, and her mouth had that determined set to it. She stood up from his armchair—somehow she’d settled herself there, while he ended up on the chair behind the desk—and gazed intently at him. “I’m wiped. And about three resurrections or gay conversions past overwhelmed. I’m gonna turn in.”

“All right,” he said mildly.

“Are you gonna be here when I wake up?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. “If you want me to.”

She thought this over for a long, painful moment. “Yeah. I do. I’ve got some major league absorbing and mulling to do, but…I’ll deal. Stick around, okay?”

He was surprised at the depth of relief he felt. “Thank you.”

She gave him a small, tight smile. “Hey, mi casa es su casa. But, um, I’d steer clear of the rest of the girls, at least until I get the word out.”

“I intend to remain in my rooms at least until tonight.” He was tired himself, and he yearned for his old, familiar bed.

She walked toward the door, stopped, and then quickly went toward him. She threw her arms around him and whispered, “I’m glad you’re not completely dead.” Before he could formulate a response, she was gone.

 

***

 

For nearly two weeks, Giles kept close to his quarters. He didn’t really mind at first—it felt good to be among familiar things and he had some writing to catch up on—but soon enough he felt confined and bored and a bit twitchy with inactivity. He had to admit, he was lonely as well. He’d stayed far away from the buildings’ other residents, and he’d seen Buffy only briefly, as she stopped by with packets of blood and a demeanor that clearly conveyed she was still sorting matters in her head.

When he couldn’t manage the sameness of his small rooms any longer, he’d leave, spending a few hours skulking about darkened streets. Perhaps it was just his new senses or the recently installed demon, but London didn’t seem familiar any more. Oh, he could still find his way about perfectly well, of course. But he viewed the city as a visitor might, as a stranger. It was an unsettling feeling, almost as unsettling as when he kept realizing he’d crept up on some unsuspecting pedestrian, and that his fangs had dropped and he was very nearly within striking distance.

He wanted to kill.

The proximity of all those Slayers and Watchers wasn’t helping one bit. When he returned to his rooms, even if he avoided seeing them, he could hear them and smell them. He could _feel_ them, their presence like sandpaper on his nerves.

He was relieved when Buffy appeared at his door late one afternoon. She carried a plastic cup of something sugary with whipped cream on top, and she looked poised and determined. “Up for a chat?” she asked.

He smiled and ushered her in. She plopped herself into the armchair and he settled back behind his desk, where he’d been perusing a 14th-century manuscript about ghouls. He took a sip of his drink—blood with a shot of whiskey, which tasted better than he’d expected. There was a momentary silence, which Buffy broke with a melodramatic sigh.

“Are they happy, Giles?”

He didn’t have to ask who “they” were. “Yes. They’re…good for each other, I expect. I don’t know the precise details of what happened to Spike, but he was clearly very traumatized. Angel has had a difficult time of it as well. As for Xander, you know as well as I that he’s been searching for…well, for love, I suppose, and for quite some time. They make one another stronger. And they’ll protect one another fiercely.”

She shook her head slowly. “It’s a spell, isn’t it? A curse. Everyone who loves me turns gay.”

He smiled. “Erm…I believe Spike and Angel…well, Angelus…had a relationship of sorts long before you were born.”

She made a face, but then looked thoughtful. “That would explain a lot.” She took a slurp of her drink and shrugged. “I’m glad they’re happy. All of them. Do you think it’s gonna work out, long term?”

“I don’t know. But I have a good feeling about them.”

She nodded decisively. “Good.” She looked about the room, as if his piles of books and papers might have changed since the previous night. “What are your plans, then? I mean, I’m sure you can stay here. It’ll take a little getting used to for some of the girls, but they’ll deal. They put up with Spike back in Sunnydale, and my house was a lot smaller than this place.”

He twisted his glass a bit, swirling the ruby liquid within. “Thank you. Honestly, I’m not certain what I’ll do. I’d rather thought I might attempt to return to my old position here, but I find myself…restless.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Demon’s not so much with the sitting and staring at dusty old books all night, huh?”

“Not so much, no.”

“There’s not a lot of action around here. The nasty things have better places to hang than in the same town as us. The smart ones, anyway. And the stupid ones aren’t much fun.” She sounded wistful, he thought.

She stood and walked to the window, where she looked out into the deepening dusk. They were both silent for some time, sipping at their respective drinks. Then she turned and gave him a small grin. “How about a walk?”

It was a clear night and the air was brisk. The cold didn’t matter to him anymore, but Buffy had a long wool coat pulled tightly about her small body. They wound their way through the streets until they came to an Underground station; Buffy tugged on his sleeve, pulling him down the stairs. The car was crowded with the last of the evening’s commuters, and Giles and Buffy stood there, swaying comfortably as they chugged along, until they came to the Tower Hill stop. There, she led him through the tunnels to the DLR, and they boarded the next train that arrived.

“I thought we were going for a walk, Buffy, not traveling to the ends of the earth.”

“Greenwich is not the ends of the earth.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what’s in Greenwich?”

“Time,” she smiled.

Again they were silent, but her shoulder was brushing against his arm. He could smell her shampoo and the cream she used on her hands, could feel her body heat radiating from her as if she were a space heater. He’d never been especially surprised that Angel and Spike had fallen for her, but only now did he realize the way they must have been pulled to her like moths to a flame.

They emerged just near the River Thames and they stood at the railing for some time, watching the dark water roll by. “I hadn’t realized you had such an interest in Maritime matters,” he finally said.

“We had a thing here a couple months ago. These eely, tentacly things that were popping up out of the water and grabbing people. Um…Samovar demons?”

“Stahnobari.”

“Yeah. Those. I ruined a good pair of boots on them, too. But, I don’t know. I kinda decided I liked it here. Those buildings”—she gestured toward the Royal Naval College—“are kinda cool. Sometimes I come here and think, when I need some quiet.”

“There’s not much quiet to be found at Headquarters.”

She laughed. “Not really. All those girls—there’s always some kind of drama going on. It’s like living with a zillion Dawns. And the Watchers aren’t much better. Somebody’s always in my face, bitching about someone else. And I can’t really be good friends with any of them, because then they think I’m playing favorites.” She looked suddenly old, he thought, her features worn, despite the gentle moonlight.

“It’s lonely at the top,” he said.

In a very small voice, she said, “I’m tired of being at the top.”

She turned from the railing and looked up at him. “I’ve been thinking of giving it up,” she said.

“Giving what up? Being a Slayer?”

“No. I learned way back I can’t ditch that. But I don’t have to be Slayer Numero Uno. Faith would be as good at it as me. Better, maybe. And she’d just about sell her soul to take over, too.”

Giles nodded in agreement. He’d decided long ago that Faith was quite capable, and he’d been wondering how long it would be before she rankled under Buffy’s leadership and either left or led a mutiny. “But what would you do, then?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I think I want to go solo. Sort of freelance, you know? Have stake, will travel.”

“Here?”

“No. Man, I’d kill for an In-N-Out. I want to go home, Giles.”

“I understand.”

She twisted about again, so that she was facing the water. After another long silence, she said, “I don’t have to be _totally_ alone, you know. I mean, some back-up’s always of the good.”

His heart had felt so cold since he’d died, a hard ball of ice lodged inside his chest. Now, though, he could have sworn it warmed a degree or two. “What sort of backup were you thinking of?” he asked carefully.

She stood in profile to him, but he could see the corner of her mouth rise. “Bad-ass Watcher turned souled vamp, for a start. I dunno, maybe with a side of the Three Musketeers, if they’re up to it.”

He considered that a moment. “You believe you could manage all that…masculinity?”

She laughed again. “After how I’ve been living, a little testosterone sounds pretty good.”

“And what about fangs?”

Her smile was brighter than he’d remembered, more beautiful. “I can handle that.”

He let his face change. The brow ridges felt heavy and powerful, his teeth ached to tear into something hot and vital.

Buffy didn’t recoil. She gave him a long look, then reached up and just lightly touched her fingertips to his face. Then she let her hand drop.

“I bet we could find _something_ to hunt around here,” she said. And she turned and ran, glancing back at him as she did.

He watched her for a moment, hearing her heartbeat even from yards away. Then he began to run as well, smiling widely, catching up to her with no trouble at all.

 

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